


A long way home

by Hokova



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, Minor Angst, No Plot/Plotless, Oneshot, Sassy hawkstrider, introspective, lots of description, minor Scourge trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 07:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4869137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hokova/pseuds/Hokova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young blood elf is traveling from Kalimdor right into the Plaguelands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A long way home

It seemed as though no matter how high one stood in the city, and no matter where you looked, the land was coated in a layer of red dust as far as the horizon. Sticking to roofs and obscuring the view as a mist hanging in the air, it colored the sky even in the dark. In a way, it made the nights seem even warmer and it certainly made any strong winds even harsher; the fact the roofs stayed on had to fill a foreigner with awe at their sturdiness.

But, of course, those who built Orgrimmar have survived more things than the whims of the weather. The city reflected that. On the first look there was havoc, a certain unnerving sense of war drums being part of its very core - yet it was strangely disciplined in a rough and unrefined way, and despite that being

(frightening)

alien, it worked. It seemingly has been so for long, too - the reds being the color of long dried and dead

(not the still fresh one)

blood and the wood blackened with age and smoke. The place's underbelly was tough as a rockhide.

It was worse for those standing (or, in his case, crouching) on a high platform in the open, with nothing to do but wait. The dust got on one's eyes, hair, boots, and nerves. It made the time crawl slow as a snail.

He didn't want to move and descend into the city again, though. The relative safety inside was now impossible to endure in peace when you knew you could leave soon. (Eastward.)

It was the main city and officially its gates were opened to all of the Horde; when you kept to yourself and stayed in line, you were safe. Most of the time, it could be a haven but

(Trust only your own.)

things could also be unstable, in a way those who grew elsewhere weren't familiar with and could not quite be comfortable with no matter how often they frequented the city. But after all, allies did not have to be friendly, only cooperate. (And was he glad he could move unseen at certain times, when the air seemed to crack with tension and palms itch to grab onto a weapon on pure instinct- the Barrens made you jumpy.)

"The zeppelin to Undercity has just arrived! All aboard for Tirisfal Glades!"

Hearing the scratchy voice yelling behind his back made Eumoir jump in his seat, reflexes faster than brain, and he immediately cursed himself for letting his guard down - then that he was tensed like a string in the first place.

(You don't need to be. Calm down)

He awkwardly straightened from the crouch, shaking out one of his feet which had gone nearly numb (dear Light, how terribly undignified) and then finally gathered his bags and went up to the goblin zeppelin master, Frezza. On impulse he leaned down and lightly tapped his shoulder.

"Wha- Oh, damn you to the Abyss, elf! You scared the shit out of me! I forgot you're there!" Frezza screeched, stumbling backwards. He looked startled, but after seeing said elf also relieved.

"My apologies, it really wasn't my intention to do so."

"You know who to tell that to. Your chicken!"

"It's a hawkstrider," Eumoir had to bite his cheek to hold back a grin.

"Looks all like overgrown chicken to me. Betcha it tastes the same, too." The mentioned animal, previously having been comfortably nestled further back on the platform along with other luggage (and with a respectful distance to a windrider), registered someone is talking about it and straightened neck to the utmost. It almost glared on the goblin sideways with a judging, bright eye. It fluffed up its feathers, poised as if to strike should anyone get too close.

"Keep the thing away from me."

The hawkstrider stood up, but by then its owner was already at its side, soothingly whispering. He stole an apprehensive glance back at the zeppelin master, but Frezza thankfully seemed only mildly irritated at most. That was good. That goblins were easy going in general was good, really, every place needed people like them. The bird squawked; this time it was held back a bit more forcefully. "Shh... come on. It's okay. Be nice..."

It was a reminder to himself as well as the mount - one of them took it in stride and obediently stopped, then backed away a step. (Yes. Great. Good boy. I'm glad you listen.)

He felt a sudden surge of affection for the prideful, bity, sharp strider and pet its head gently. Its dark feathers were puffed up, making it seem wider, if not larger, and beak opened to a small gap, and orange eyes blazing, and in that moment it was the closest to any family he could get to. He dug fingers into the plumage; the soft warmth was inviting and provided some sense of comfort.

Indeed it was a comfort, to know something of his own - living, breathing, and loyal - was always relatively near and slept itself close enough to go visit on the nights that seemed too cold. Cold... Cold was startling. Cold was like Northrend, like stiff bodies, like- like---

The hawkstrider wasn't perturbed at any hour. Really, it took everything (apart from being called a chicken) with a certain aloof, arrogant placidity, and let its elf crawl under one of its wings letting him know it would treat him less than an owner and more as its chick. It also sometimes pushed him out of the nest in the morning rather forcefully, but ventured out right after him.

"All aboard! We'll be leaving in ten minutes!"

Jumping once again, he grabbed the mount's reins, carefully pulling him to the edge and onto wood between other passengers. There weren't many (Really, how many would be keen on traveling to that place often?) and he was the only elf abroad. One of the apparent first-timers, an orc concealing nervosity, asked one of the crew members about the alleged explosions and crashes. He was cheerfully waved aside as paranoid, as 'the small ones can barely hurt a fly. Unless the fly comes too close, then it becomes a firefly. Geddit? HAHA!'

The orc cast a wide-eyed glance at his traveling companions, one of which - a tauren girl - carefully gestured for him not to ask further questions.

"Although, speaking of coming close - stay clear of the edges," the goblin suddenly changed his tone to dead serious. "the balance was a little, eh, off last time. Will be fixed soon. Nothing to worry about, just don't lean out too much. Parachutes don't come for free! ...though if you're interested in buying one, I'm free for debate anytime..."

"And the crashes?"

"We only crashed once this year!" he got defensive. "Tirisfall Glades. That ain't our fault, too, it was the bats'."

Eumoir felt sorry for them, and especially the one who asked, and swalloved it. Surely, none of them wanted his pity.

He snuck glances at them, testing whether or not they'd note his presence, or care, and kept his face carefully neutral in case they did. One needed to be on their guard; aware of them. Letting too much show, losing grip of self-control was never a good idea in public, around strangers. Who knew what reaction would that get from these. It was unpredictable.

He tried not to stare too much, silently sitting to the side (though not too close to the side), but still couldn't quite stop curiosity from getting the better of him, stop ears from (painfully obviously) twitching in the direction of conversation, fidgeting. He couldn't help examining the rest of the travelers, crew, and still barely contained the cheer at seeing the vast blue surface under them, waves crashing against the shore they passed above - always different, always beautiful.

Sensations still coming too strong left embarrassment. It made him feel like a child, they all did, and he hated-

(...no, not hate. Hate is too strong a word. Slight aversion, maybe.)

Despite the silence and distance he kept it wasn't for lack of interest.

(I truly want to know more.)

Ah, no. The many changes over years were still hard to keep up with

(You ARE still a child.)

and Kalimdor itself was fascinating and meeting its denizens was. It was _new_.

(It's too much.) .................................................................

He had his nose buried in feathers for the first few whiffs of Tirisfall Glades. The air seemed stale; though the place did get rain and wind, and could even be refreshing, it took some getting used to. The plain presence of death among the cracking of evergreens made one's hair stand on end on pure instinct, one that arose with years of living near it, having to dash on a near invisible path through, all the while being ware that- anytime- a gurgling sound could be heard and a bony hand with rotting flesh could come out of nowhere to drag you down, were you prepared or not- (Don't think about it.) Of course, the guards at the entrance of the zeppelin tower wouldn't do the same thing. That was obvious. They weren't the same. Chaotic, yes- dark, definitely- rotten, _most certainly_ \- but they were conscious and in control of themselves and they would even salute you. They were rather friendly, really - and subjects of Sylvannas, at that.

(But the stench is _the same_ )

He suppressed a shudder as he passed them.

Plague. Plague was the keyword here. The land was wrecked, still sick and infested (on some places disgustingly literally) with worms, one could do only so much to keep it from spreading and many did try hard. It was a thankless job in ways, one had to be glad to be able to do it just for the sake of cleaning itself, to be able to make the paths a little safer for the living (...and allies. Though admittedly, they could cope better with some things.).

"Y'sure you wanna walk all the way?" the Forsaken man asked half in amusement, half disbelief.

"I will not be walking on my own," he pat the feathered back.

"But you do have a long way to go on ground. Brave!"

Bats shuffled in place above them, one sleepily turning its muzzle, but other than that hung mostly unmoving. He simply nodded politely, then, as a second thought, added; "I'm really going on foot _because_ of the Scourge."

"Ya don't say? You're one of those berserkers?"

"Ah... no. But I'll be back in Tranquillien soon, and the practice will be useful."

"No," the flightmaster grinned mischievously. The elf leaned back in confusion.

"No, what do you mean?"

"Practice isn't your reason. You already have lotsa practice, if you dare travel alone through the Plaguelands - alone, and not a magic user either! ...it's outta principle. Am I right?"

They stared at each other for a moment.

"You wanna kill as much as you can of those fuckers along the way."

Despite the crass language, Eumoir felt a tug at the corners of his mouth. He dropped his head to hide it.

"I admit you... are not exactly wrong."

He received an unexpected, strong smack on the back, and reeled back in surprise at the contact. The bat handler was laughing. "Good luck!"

This time he did allow a faint smile to show in return. ..................................................................

Trailing off the road and diving straight into the midst of plaguehounds- or ghouls, did it matter, really?- became at some point in the past a morbid and slightly suicidal hobby instead of a necessity.

(Better for them too, to be in pieces. There will be much less suffering in the world if there's less of those _things_. They shouldn't be around. And won't.)

The hunt- (fight...) drove him all around the place. If he stayed on one spot for a bit longer, it was simply because there was no shortage of the midless undead nearby. As soon as there was a bigger mass elsewhere, he moved, often leaving the bird to sit on the previous place (it liked towers) and he ventured out alone, creeping between the trees completely unseen. Seeing the enemy stumble in surprise, being the ones unprepared for an attack and only having so much time to fight back, and slim chances... It wasn't only to thin out their numbers.

It was _satisfying_.

Not quite justice, no, nothing could make up for... Everything, but it provided a small relief. And this, at least, wasn't addicting, and people would even pat your back for coming back splattered with pieces you did not want to quite know what were of.

That was why he wind up at so many places that at one point he had all the pathways, obvious or not, burned into memory. He was sure a map wouldn't be hard to make even with eyes closed. Even the smell could be bearable after a while, when you knew it meant one of them was dead for good. (Hopefully.)

"Do you ever even sleep?"

"I have not had rest in six years."

That shut up anyone who asked. Of course, the more clever ones did not question why hatred of the Scourge kept him up at night and spurred him on and on to kill. ..................................................................

Trying to keep the wild bats at bay was a tricky challenge. When you once saw them quickly, albeit messily, descend on you from above, and be able to dodge before you moved, it was no wonder the Forsaken rode them. Flying on one was really, very useful, and safer than any other animal were they properly tamed. When they weren't, excitement was ahead.

It seemed that on their 'home ground' (so to speak), they got bold and assured enough to fly to the road to attack travelers. Such a far cry from the ones flying nearer to hills! Those that were of a familiar shape and color, and smaller. Those he was used to see with huge, pale spiders.

...was it the same breed? But, really, the hills were also quite an oddly welcome sight.

(Those bats roam the Ghostlands! Is it that close?)

Stopping in his tracks under a tree (a dead one), he sat down speechless for a moment, looking through the high ground and over to the other side.

(I'm _that close?_ )

Maybe that inner map was not as complete as it seemed. When one spent so much time on the other side of the hills, not daring to cross it alone (at the time), you couldn't recognize it from this side... even as close.

He scrambled to his feet quickly. ..................................................................

Despite being a fast companion and fearless anywhere they were, once the hawkstrider found ground it recognized he almost seemed like he'd be able to fly freely. He let out a scream; not the low screech of the plainstrider, or a vulture battle cry, but a layered, melodic call, one that around them sounded in tune with the rest of the world. There came a reply of his kin not far off. Both echoed between the trees and merged into the other, far more subtle but lasting sounds.

It was never quiet, the land earning its name less because of the eerie surroundings and far more for the presence. While usually not coming near, touching or showing (unless you set foot on the place they died), the spirits were there. They brought a chill that was different than the (also still present) traces of the Scourge. Theirs was softer, barely noticeable, yet creeped up on you from all sides, letting one taste a trace of fear, sorrow, or anger, not too different from the feelings of the ones fortunate enough to get away. On some days it was more horrible than the remains in the Dead Scar, but when the ghosts kept to low whispers, barely rising above the rustle of leaves, they could be a soothing company when crossing the ground infested with beasts and abominations. Some of them stood out sometimes - voices quiet, clear, and painfully burned into memory.

It was one of those days when they unbearably reminded him of screams between the white trees, as much bones as plants.

They went past Tranquillien as fast as if Dreadlords were right on their trail. ..............................................................

Most who came upon a wood locked in perpetual golden hues, leaves falling on your head instead of flowers, they found it to be eerie, too. Nature shaped by magic, an atmosphere that just buzzed with it such that you could feel it as a soft breeze on the edges, should indeed be disconcerning.

Natives knew it was for a reason. Magic pushed back winter, it made the air sweeter, more filling, more _breathable_. The waves kept the forest strong.

(who cared for their source, usually all nature was green, so what if only the energy was?)

The mount joined in with the cacophony of other birds, adding an undertone for stepping through the entrance to Silvermoon. It was much more confident than its rider, whose stomach was still clenched, ears still pressed close to his head. He took a sideway glance; the lights on the side of the road didn't flicker.

Slowly, he slightly bent his head while passing the guards, an almost timid gesture. He got a reply in kind; more serious, but with a similar respectful air. Making sure he was alone around the corner, in the entrance, he pulled the (protesting) bird's reins, and then jumped off.

It was a purely sentimental move to step into their city on his own feet, which was why he didn't want to be seen. They walked inside both on their own, and because of the front man stopped on the edge of the main road made of white stones.

It was as though one could almost taste the lines of energy underneath and above - imperfect, granted, woven back together with work, but free and showing in the cracks (or lack thereof) in the buildings. The sunlight had a different color, but for that it looked purer, and nothing disturbed the rays coming right down. The surfaces were smooth, and holding together in angles that were flowing and easy on the eye. And finally, the hairs at the back of his neck fell down. He smoothed them out, locked hands behind head and just stood there, staring unblinking on the curved, red roofs. Curved, but they still had a subtle sharpness to them that showed that it would take more than a push and shove for them to crumble entirely. Down a few stories, maybe, but no further.

Some of the buildings have been there for longer than he could recall.

(...still, it took a while to return.)

At that he let his head fall down, slowly bringing one hand up to rub his eyes.

(That's enough. You can relax. You're home.)


End file.
